Death on the Lizard

by Robin Paige

  The man sighed again, more heavily. “I even had a look in Gerard’s room last night, to see if whoever took the tuner left anything behind. Couldn’t find a thing. But I’ll tell you, old girl, it gave me a bad case of the jitters to poke around in a dead man’s stuff.”

  Bradford pulled in his breath. The revelations were coming so thick and fast that he could scarcely field them. So this was the man who had ransacked Gerard’s room!

  There was the creak of a bed, as if someone had sat or lain down upon it. Miss Chase said, with some sarcasm, “Go right ahead. Make yourself comfortable. Take your shoes off, why don’t you?” Her voice became heavily ironic. “Take your shirt and trousers off, too, while you’re at it. Nobody’s looking.”

  “Oh, go to hell,” the man said humorously. “Listen, now that you’re here, old thing, and you’ve got Marconi so neatly twisted around your finger, I’ve got an idea. I think it’s very likely that he’s got another one of those tuners, or a pocketful of notes describing it. I can’t believe a smart gent like him would let somebody else do his inventing for him. Anyway, I want you to find out.”

  She laughed. “Me? And just how do you suggest I do that? Ask him?”

  “Don’t be a ninny. Search his room. If it’s there, take it.”

  Search his room? Bradford was taken aback. Why, the nerve of the man! The idea that they could simply—

  “Search his room?” Miss Chase’s voice had become chilly. “I don’t think so. It’s too big a risk. What if he catches me? What if—?”

  “I’ll see to it that you’re not caught,” the man said. “I’ll cozy up to Marconi while you’re having a nice, leisurely paw through his drawers and his wardrobe.”

  “And how am I supposed to get into his room?”

  “Try this,” the man said.

  There was a metallic clink, as if something had fallen on the floor. Bradford’s guess was confirmed in the next moment.

  “Where’d you get a key?” Miss Chase asked, in admiring surprise.

  “Where else? Off the key rack behind the desk. There were two, so they’ll never miss one. And if they do, they’ll think one of the maids took it and forgot to put it back.”

  There was a pause. “I suppose I can do it,” she said at last, in a half-doubtful tone, “if you’ll guarantee to keep him occupied.” Her laugh was brittle. “Which shouldn’t be too hard. Just talk to him about his favorite subject. Himself. Or that damned wireless of his.”

  Bradford had to smile. The remark was not far off the mark. Once Marconi began talking about himself and his work, it was almost impossible to change the subject.

  “After dinner, then.” The bed creaked again, as if the man had stood up. “I’ll keep him talking about wireless— I’ve learned a thing or two about it from de Forest, you know—while you go powder your nose. Now, old girl, what’d’ya say to a little kiss?”

  Since she didn’t say anything, and since the silence went on for rather a long time, Bradford could only surmise that Miss Chase had allowed herself to be kissed. After a suitable interval, he stepped softly to the door and eased it open a crack.

  In a moment, he heard Miss Chase’s door open, and he risked cracking his own a bit wider. He recognized the man who passed in front of him, and was not surprised.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  What is called automatic writing, when the pen is held by an ordinary person and appears to write without conscious volition, is a purely psychic phenomenon; for there is no question that the muscles of the writer are used. . . . In the case of such mediums, the brain is as it were leaky, and impressions can get through from the psychic universe which are not brought by the sense organs and nervous network to a brain center, but arrive in the mind by some more direct route.

  “Psychic Science,”

  Sir Oliver Lodge

  Now is the air so full of ghosts, that no one knows how to escape them.

  The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, 1902

  Sigmund Freud

  The dinner party at Penhallow was certainly festive enough. The group—Kate and Charles, Jenna and Sir Oliver, and Patsy—was seated at a damask-covered table set with china, crystal, and silver, centered with a loose, tumbling arrangement of roses and ferns and lit with tall ivory tapers. Kate heartily approved of the flowers, which were a pleasant change from the formal floral displays she usually saw on dining tables. She approved, too, of the menu, for it was a comparatively simple dinner of soup (white and brown); salmon; lamb, ham, and veal; salad and vegetables; a charlotte Russe; and crystallized fruit, and cheese—nothing like the much more elaborate meal they would have eaten at the home of one of their London friends. It was served by Wilson, assisted by one of the village girls; the pair of them did an entirely creditable job, Kate thought.

  The conversation was as pleasant as everyone’s efforts could make it. Patsy was animated and amusing, full of tales of her travels in the Arabian desert; Charles and Sir Oliver said nothing at all about wireless or other such scientific wizardry, and conversed on any number of agreeable subjects of general interest; and Kate joined in with enthusiasm. But while Jenna did her best to participate, she seemed abstracted and quiet, and rather paler and more delicate than usual, Kate thought, as if the prospect of the after-dinner séance had already depressed her spirits.

  After the meal, the entire group (not just the ladies) adjourned to Penhallow’s small library, a book-lined room with an oriental carpet laid over the stone floor and comfortable leather furniture, where Wilson served coffee and port. The blazing fire was especially welcome, for the long-delayed rain had begun to fall at last, and an occasional rumble of thunder rattled the windows.

  Kate had already explained to Jenna that Charles would not be staying for the séance, and when he rose to leave, his thanks and apologies were accepted without offense. Thankfully, Kate was not asked to explain where he was going, and Jenna’s only concern was for his comfort.

  “It’s raining,” she said. “If you’re in need of a mackintosh and umbrella, I’m sure we can find them.”

  “Thank you, but I have mine with me,” Charles said, “and the gig has a folding hood and side curtains. It is July, after all, and I shall be dry enough.” He bowed to Lodge. “Good night, Sir Oliver. I trust that you will enjoy the remainder of your visit.” And with a smile at Patsy and a quick kiss for Kate, he was gone.

  Well, then, Beryl said with satisfaction, as Charles left. Now that His Nibs is gone, we can begin. Beryl always confessed to feeling somewhat diffident in Charles’s presence, a little intimidated by his sometimes stern countenance.

  “I’m sorry Lord Charles could not join us for the séance,” Sir Oliver said. “But perhaps it is just as well. One never knows, of course, but it has been my experience that overtly skeptical people have a dampening effect on the spirits.”

  Dampening, Beryl said with a chuckle. That’s it, exactly. His lordship can be dampening.

  “Then we are well rid of him for the evening,” Kate remarked lightly. “There was never a more skeptical man than Charles Sheridan. If I were a spirit, I should be totally dampened in his presence.” She stretched out her hands to the fire. “Are we having our séance here in the library, Jenna? I do hope so—the fire is awfully nice.”

  “I thought it would be a good place, if Sir Oliver agrees,” Jenna said. “Since there are only four of us, we can all sit at the library table.”

  The table in question, round and substantial, was made of dark oak, with thick legs curving out from a center pedestal.

  “Oh, but it’s such a heavy table,” Patsy objected, regarding it with a mock frown. “It would take an abominably strong spirit to thump it.” She looked at Sir Oliver. “I say, Sir Oliver, not to disparage Jenna’s table, but shouldn’t we have something . . . well, rather lighter in weight?”

  Oh, by all means, Beryl put in. We want a jolly good table-thumping .

  “I wish,” Jenna said quietly, “that you wouldn’t make light of this, Patsy
. It’s hard enough without—” She bit her lip and turned away. “I already feel terribly foolish, you know.”

  Sir Oliver pulled his thick brows together. “If I may be forgiven for saying so, Miss Marsden, the more serious we are about tonight’s endeavor, the more likely we are to succeed.” He opened a small leather briefcase and took out a stack of paper and several pencils. “Unfortunately, humor can be just as dampening as skepticism.”

  Patsy raised her hand in a pledge. “No more tomfoolery, I promise. I shall be as sober as a judge. But not judgmental,” she corrected herself hastily. “I shan’t offer any judgments at all. I shall just—”

  “You shall just hold your tongue,” Kate said, with a smile, “or the spirits will never be able to get a word in edgewise.”

  “It’s only nervousness,” Patsy replied in a whisper. “I really am a little afraid, Kate.”

  Patsy? Afraid? Beryl exclaimed.

  “After all your wild desert adventures?” Kate asked. “I must say, I’m surprised.”

  “I know,” Patsy replied candidly. “It is rather extraordinary, isn’t it? But I have a nasty, nagging sort of feeling, you see, and—” She stopped and shook herself. “Oh, I’m just being silly, that’s all. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  Yes, Beryl said smartly. The spirits are eager. Let’s get on with it.

  Jenna was clearing the framed photographs, books, and other items from the library table. “Shall we want a cloth?” she asked.

  “No need for it,” Sir Oliver replied. “The less on the table, the better. Except for—” He picked up a photograph of a small girl in a soft white dress, white stockings, and white slippers, her hair drawn up and secured by a large white bow at the back of her head. “Except for dear Harriet’s photograph. We shall put it just . . . here.” He set the photograph carefully in the center of the table, and beside it arranged the paper and pencils.

  “The lights, Sir Oliver,” Jenna said. “What shall we do about the lights?”

  “Oh, let’s leave them on, by all means,” Patsy said hastily. “Otherwise, Jenna won’t be able to see to write.”

  I don’t think light is required for spirit writing, Beryl said. I think the fingers do it all by themselves.

  Sir Oliver gave Patsy a reproachful look, as if to reprimand her for being humorous again. “We must dim the lights at least a little,” he said. “If you will allow me, Jenna, my dear.”

  He took a red silk handkerchief out of his pocket and draped it in front of the lamp which sat on a nearby table, and then extinguished the other two lamps in the room. Now there was just the flickering fire and the ruby-shaded light, which cast an eerie play of shadows in the darkened corners.

  Ah, Beryl said. A perfect setting. Perfectly mysterious.

  “Right.” Sir Oliver rubbed his hands together. “Now, ladies, if you will draw up chairs, we shall begin. Jenna, my dear, I shall sit here at your left, Lady Sheridan at your right. Miss Marsden, you shall be our observer, just opposite.”

  “A silent observer,” Patsy said, suppressing a nervous giggle. She sat down.

  Really, Patsy, Beryl said reproachfully, as Kate took her place.

  Sir Oliver smiled and held Jenna’s straight-backed armchair as she sat down, pulling a garnet-red knitted shawl around her shoulders. He took a large, plump pillow from the sofa and put it to her back so that she could sit with some comfort.

  “Now, Jenna,” he said. “We shall put the paper on your right”—he shifted the stack of paper—“and ask Lady Sheridan to be sure that you are supplied with it, and additional pencils, if you should need them. As you fill one sheet with writing, I shall take it from you, and Lady Sheridan will slide another in front of you. Once in trance, you see, most mediums write very quickly, and often with a much larger script than usual. We may need a great deal of paper.”

  Jenna’s face looked pinched and very pale, and her eyes were round and luminous. “Perhaps we shan’t need any,” she said in a low voice. “I have no confidence in my ability to do what you want, Sir Oliver.”

  “It must be what you want, my dear.” Sir Oliver sat down and put his hand gently over Jenna’s. “Do you want to contact your daughter?” He was looking directly into her eyes and his voice had taken on a different, deeper resonance, Kate thought, almost the resonance of a hypnotist’s. “Do you want to reach Harriet, Jenna? Do you want to know what Harriet has to say to you? to us? Do you want to bring some measure of peace to your soul?”

  There was a silence. The fire made a soft hissing sound, punctuated by an occasional pop and crackle. Outside, not far away, thunder muttered. Jenna’s eyes went to the photograph in the center of the table. She clasped her hands.

  “I . . . do,” she said simply. “I’m . . . afraid, but I . . . do.”

  “Very well, then, my dear,” Sir Oliver said in a comforting tone, “you have only to relax, close your eyes, and allow it to begin. A sheet of paper and a pencil, Lady Sheridan, if you please.”

  Kate slid both in front of Jenna, who sat stiffly upright against the pillow, her hands folded on the table in front of her like an obedient schoolgirl, her eyelids lowered, the dark lashes sooty against her pale cheek. Outside, the rain slid down the window with a liquid plashing, while the ruby-tinted light washed the room. Against the wall, a tall clock ticked hollowly: toc toc toc. There was no other sound but the soft in-and-out sighing of four people’s breaths, which seemed now to be synchronized. Kate felt the tenseness in her neck and shoulders relax and a kind of fog seemed to settle on her. She was indeed glad that Charles had gone, for she would feel his active, analytic intellect at work, turning and testing, measuring and evaluating and questioning, while the four minds here were merely open, quiescent and receptive.

  Beside Kate, the stiffness seemed to go out of Jenna’s figure and she softened into the chair, dropping her chin on her breast and becoming very still. After another few moments, as Kate watched, she raised her head and opened her eyes, staring at the photograph of the little girl. But the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her gaze was unfocussed, and there was no conscious awareness in it.

  She’s in a trance! Beryl exclaimed, and Kate, surprised into alertness, saw that Beryl was right. Jenna’s movement was languid as she reached for the pencil and began to spiral it across the paper, not forming words, only drawing a lazy, curving shape. Opposite, Patsy drew in her breath in a little gasp, and Sir Oliver shook his head warningly. There seemed to be a new kind of energy in the room—A presence! Beryl hissed—or perhaps it was just that the wind outside had risen, and a tree beside the window had begun to lash the glass.

  Another shapeless spiral or two, and the paper was full. The pencil lagged. Sir Oliver slid the page away and nodded to Kate to supply another. Jenna leaned forward over the clean sheet, her breath coming shorter and harder, her hand moving with a renewed urgency. Kate felt herself pulled forward, watching the flowing marks on the page, still formless, still shapeless. And then, as the pencil moved faster, a word emerged, then another, and another, all curiously rounded, almost childlike:

  mother

  mother

  dear

  mother dear

  For an instant, Kate’s heart seemed to stop, and a wave of something like fear broke over her. Her senses seemed suddenly heightened. The flickering fire cast a kaleidoscope of colors—orange and red and blue—upon the faces of the people around the table. There was a metallic bitterness in her mouth, and she could almost taste the strong odor of Sir Oliver’s pipe tobacco, Patsy’s exotic Arabic perfume, the summery scent of Jenna’s hair. The wind seemed louder, the lash of leaves against the window more insistent, the thunder more ominous, Jenna’s troubled breathing a dire rattle. Kate felt as if she were watching through a telescope held the wrong way round, watching from a great distance but at the same time too near, oh too too near to whatever power propelled the moving pencil. She wanted to push back her chair and run, but something held her there, something—

  Sir O
liver had pulled the filled paper away and Jenna was writing on the table, her pencil sliding over its polished surface without leaving a mark. He nodded sharply at Kate. Chastised, she complied, sliding another paper under Jenna’s pencil, which continued without stopping.

  mother dear dear dear oh dear dear

  so so so so sor sor sorry sorry sorry i am i am sorry

  Patsy was sitting forward in her chair, her lower lip caught between her teeth, the expression on her face a mixture of terror and astonishment as she watched the swift tracery of the moving pencil. Sir Oliver’s eyes were wide and staring and there was a strong tic, almost a jerk, at the corner of his mouth. It occurred to Kate that he had not really expected this to happen, that he had thought tonight would be just another in a fruitless string of dead-end experiments and encounters with mediums who practiced fraud. Now that he seemed to be confronted with the success he had sought—with evidence for the survival of personality beyond the grave—he was so stunned that he could scarcely comprehend the impenetrable, unfathomable mystery of it.

  But perhaps this is something else, Beryl whispered significantly. What do you suppose His Nibs would say, Kate?

  At the thought of Charles, some of the mystery went out of the moment—just as it might have done if he were here. This writing, odd and intriguing as it was, might not be a message from the after-world at all, but only a compelling manifestation of Jenna’s troubled mind, her repressed guilt seeking the same kind of release it sought in her hallucinatory moments. It could be rather like what Sigmund Freud described as hysterical manifestations of the unconscious, filling the very air around them with restless ghosts.

  But while Kate was considering this in something like a rational way, Jenna—under the spell of whatever forces gripped her from within or without—was continuing to write. Her face was twisted with the effort, her wrist had stiffened, and her fingers grasped the pencil with a white-knuckled ferocity. The sheets seemed to fly out from under her hand, one after another, all with the same repeated words. The writing came faster and faster, the letters less rounded, more angular and slanting, larger and darker: